


You're Only Looking for Attention

by thesweetestnerd



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aggressive kissing, Except like...Atsumu doesn't REALLY hate Omi, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Gratuitous locker slamming, Hate Sex, He's just upset he doesn't give him enough attention, Locker room blowjobs are the best blowjobs, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Seriously Omi is gonna get a concussion, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:53:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28012731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesweetestnerd/pseuds/thesweetestnerd
Summary: Atsumu has hated smug, apathetic, stone-faced Sakusa Kiyoomi for half of his life, and finally he reaches his boiling point. He's going to get a reaction out of him, one way or the other.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 11
Kudos: 358
Collections: HQ Thirstmas 2020





	You're Only Looking for Attention

**Author's Note:**

> AHHHHHH IT'S HAPPENING, I'M WRITING SAKUATSU!!!!
> 
> This is only my second HQ piece, and I hope ya’ll love it as much as I love this ship :’)

Atsumu has had about enough of Sakusa Kiyoomi. 

Really, he decided he had enough of him when they were sixteen and both ended up at the All-Japan Youth Intensive Training Camp together, where Sakusa had proceeded to act better than everyone in attendance and speak to no one but his cousin Motoya. The whole point of the camp was to cultivate friendships and learn from each other, but Sakusa just acted like he had a stick up his ass. He and Atsumu were partnered together on the very first day, and Atsumu, who is a perfectly lovely and friendly person, regardless of what Samu says, tried his damndest to get something out of Sakusa. He hit him his best tosses, called out the customary, ‘nice kill’, offered high-fives and — nothing. Sakusa just nodded at him. 

He’d even tried to up the ante, giving him one of his famous nicknames — he settled on ‘Omi’ for Kiyoomi, and Sakusa sneered when he heard it. 

“Don’t call me that,” he said. “That’s not my name.”

That only fueled Atsumu further, because at that point, Sakusa was getting steadily on his nerves, and he was just about sick of trying to be his friend. All throughout his life, Samu told him he had a rotten personality, but Atsumu thought that was harsh. He could be difficult, sure, sometimes, but who wasn’t? Most of the time, he was downright pleasant, but he decided then and there that Sakusa didn’t deserve his good attitude.

“Ah, but it suits ya, Omi-Omi,” Atsumu teased, and just because he knew it would piss him off, Atsumu officially declared Sakusa as Omi. 

Atsumu could’ve backed off of him — probably should’ve, but Omi just...infuriated him. After the first day, even calling him Omi stopped getting Atsumu attention. Omi didn’t raise an eyebrow at anything Atsumu did — not his sets, not his serves, not even his spikes. He just didn’t care, and that really pissed Atsumu off. 

“Why d’ya care so much about what he thinks of ya?” Samu asked over the phone on the third day of camp. “Plenty of people inflate yer giant ego for ya already.”

Atsumu couldn’t explain it. He knew his twin was right — Atsumu was plenty impressive. He was there, and that spoke to his talents enough. He had little Tobio mesmerized by his sets, had all the coaches eating out of the palm of his hands, but _Omi_ — Omi was just indifferent.

Atsumu’s rage grew and by the end of the week, he wanted to lob a volleyball right at Omi’s stupid, expressionless face, but he didn’t, and when the camp was through, they went their separate ways without so much as an acknowledgment of each other. 

And Atsumu — who has never been able to let anything go — holds onto the anger that Omi’s disinterest inspired for _years._ Sure, he moves on with his life, but whenever Sakusa Kiyoomi is mentioned anywhere — whether it be a forum, a sports magazine, or just in passing by one of his teammates as they check out their match-ups for Nationals, he feels that spark of fury ignite again. 

He never does get to play Omi in a real game, which is a damn shame. Maybe if he had, it would give him some closure. 

Instead, he graduates and continues his path to a life of greatness in volleyball and tries out for the MSBY Black Jackals, a professional team that suits his preferences and skills, and who does he see when he walks through the door?

Stupid, smug, apathetic Omi. 

There are other familiar faces too, like Bokuto Koutarou, the emotional basket case from Fukurodani who could really slam a ball, and sweet, shrimpy Hinata Shouyou, who Atsumu has been itching to set for since he saw that freak-quick he did in their first match. He grins at them both, gives into some general chit-chat and catching up, but his eyes flicker to Omi constantly, watching him. 

His behavior seems the same — he sits alone in the corner, ignoring everybody as per usual, and when the tryouts start, he just slides right into it.

Atsumu’s been following Omi’s career — not because he cares, just because it happens to be unfolding in the same timeframe that he is, and so he knows that he’s improved over the years since their training camp. 

They’re conducting practice in a series of scrimmages, and Atsumu is put on the same team as Omi, so of course, he has to set for him. When he does, Omi slams the ball down straight into the other team’s side of the court, with no chance for any sort of receive. Before he can catch himself, Atsumu blurts out, “Shit, Omi — you’ve been practicin’!”

Omi glares at him like he’s said something gravely insulting. “Obviously, Miya.”

“It’s a compliment,” Atsumu frowns and suddenly years of pent-up emotions come rushing back to him and he remembers why he can’t _stand_ Omi’s entire existence. 

Of course, they both make the team, and because the universe is out to spite him, their new coach smiles at both of them as they’re all huddled together, worn down and sweaty and says, “Miya, Sakusa — you two are going to make a serious power-duo.”

Omi’s derisive snort is enough to make Atsumu want to commit murder.

-x-

Atsumu’s hatred festers and grows with every practice — every irritated huff that comes from Omi’s direction, every display of apathy makes his blood hot. The thing about it that really fires Atsumu up is that it seems to be _only_ him that Omi has a blatant disregard for. He entertains Shouyou well enough and lets Koutarou scream to him without scrunching up his eyebrows and pouting. He tells Meian, ‘nice kill’ and clenches his fist when anyone scores, but with Atsumu, it’s like he doesn’t even _see_ him.

Things come to a boiling point months into his time with MSBY, after a particularly grueling game against the Schweidan Adlers in which Atsumu got his ass handed to him by goody-two-shoes Tobio for the second time in his life. He’s exhausted, sore, and above all — really, really pissed. He stomps to the locker room the moment their coaches release them from their depressing post-game pep talk and storms straight to the showers.

There is _no_ reason they should’ve let the Adlers shit on them like they just did. They had sloppy plays, made dumb mistakes, and didn’t play their best. No, that isn’t true — his team put their best effort into it; it was just one player that didn’t pull his weight, and of course that player is the bane of Atsumu’s existence. 

Omi _knows_ how to play volleyball. Atsumu sees it plenty — Omi, flying into the air with more beauty and grace than someone with a freaky body like his should be capable of; Omi, slamming down gravity-defying spikes; Omi, acting as an unshakable wall.

He should’ve gotten angry, should’ve regretted it more, but Omi wouldn’t even grant Atsumu the slightest hint of remorse when he flubbed his final set and lost their last point to the Adlers. He listened to their coach’s post-game talk with that blank slate expression, ignoring the beams of fury Atsumu was directing straight at him.

The hot water washes over him and he hears the slamming of lockers, and he knows his team is probably in a hurry to get out and go home to drown their sorrows in whatever vices they have, but Atsumu knows one will stay behind. Omi, always meticulous in his post-game routine, no matter the outcome, will be the last in the locker room, making sure everything is disinfected and neatly folded away before he departs. Atsumu’s skin boils, temper rising with the steam. He washes his hair quickly and towels off, only bothering to throw on sweatpants for the walk back to his locker. 

As expected, Omi is the only straggler, neatly packing up his bag with not so much as a hint of disappointment on his face. It’s like any other day for him. Atsumu wants to punch him, just to see his face contort in anger.

Omi notices him staring, but doesn’t turn his head. 

“What.”

That’s another one of the many things about Omi that gets under Atsumu’s skin — his questions are never really questions. They’re statements, or challenges, and Atsumu is riled up right now, ready for any challenge. 

“What the fuck were ya doin’ out there?” 

He just wants to get _something_ out of him. He wants Omi to get mad, to defend himself, to show some damn emotion, but instead, he just sneers. “Get out of my face, Miya.” 

Atsumu feels something deep within him snap. He’s so damn _sick_ of Sakusa Kiyoomi, so he doesn’t get out of his face. In fact, he takes a step closer until there are only a few inches of space between them, and growls, “Ya played like shit.” 

That lights some sort of fire in Omi’s eyes, and the tiniest hint of expression is enough to draw Atsumu just a hair closer, invading Omi’s space. The fire doesn’t go out as he levels with Atsumu, trying to read his intentions. He backs up, one step, and snarls out, “Fuck you.” 

“Wow,” Atsumu whistles, sarcasm dripping, because he’s in too deep to stop now, and he’s forgotten all of his manners — now that Omi deserves them anyways. “That’s the most expressive I’ve ever heard ya be, Omi. Didn’t think ya had it in ya. Maybe ya communicate better when I’ve got ya cornered like this.”

Omi takes his hands and shoves Atsumu, hard enough to cause him to stumble back, and years of loathing fly to the surface and break out of him. Atsumu pushes him right back, right into the lockers. Omi’s head smacks back and he lets it hang there for a moment, before snapping it back down and fixing Atsumu with a hostile glare. 

“There ya go,” Atsumu mumbles. “That’s the reaction I’m looking for.”

Something carnal stirs in Atsumu — something familiar; the need to get his own emotions out with his fists, so when Omi lunges at him, Atsumu fights back. They grab at anything they can — Omi’s blunt nails dig into Atsumu’s bare shoulders and he jams his knee into his stomach. Atsumu gasps for breath but it only takes him a moment to recover before he’s once again pinning Omi against the lockers, this time with a hand around his neck.

Omi’s chest is rising and falling rapidly, but he doesn’t struggle. He stares straight at Atsumu, cold, hateful, and now he can see the struggle it is for Omi to keep his emotions in check. They spill out of him like this, unable to be held back any longer — anger, frustration, pain, contempt. Atsumu drinks them in, keeping his own gaze level with Omi’s, hand still around his neck, barely letting him breathe.

Neither of them speaks; they just stand, nearly chest-to-chest, thigh-to-thigh, panting to catch their breath, and Omi’s eyes flicker, for just a brief second, to Atsumu’s lips. 

Atsumu doesn’t think it over, but he never does — he simply acts on instinct, and right now, instinct tells him to pull more reactions out of Omi, so he releases his hold on his neck, closes the remaining distance between them, and crashes his mouth onto his.

Omi responds immediately, opens his mouth, and slides his tongue into Atsumu’s. Atsumu fights him on it, tangles their tongues together, and licks into the roof of Omi’s mouth, eliciting the tiniest noise from him. It’s delicious. It makes Atsumu tingle all over; it’s what he’s wanted from him all of these years.

Omi can do nothing but pay Atsumu attention. Every sensation he knows now, comes from Atsumu. He devours Omi, lifts his knee so it’s in between his legs, and twists his hands into his hair. He overwhelms him, ensures that Omi can’t ignore him, and when he feels Omi react with little pants, twitching hands, and the unconscious jerk of his hips, he feels victory. 

Then years of neglect, of snide remarks or flat out being ignored come crashing back, and Atsumu feels anger. He tears his mouth from Omi’s and attaches it to the exposed skin on his neck, still salty from sweat. He bites. _Hard._

Omi hisses and Atsumu laves his tongue over the already forming mark. It gives him a thrill to think about covering Omi with dark purple bruises, reminding him that it was Atsumu who did this to him — Atsumu who he’s always looked down on, who he treats as lesser. 

Omi hasn’t given up control, yet, though — he slaps his hands on Atsumu’s face and pushes him away. “No marks.” 

“Oh, ya givin’ me a hard rule, Omi?” Atsumu demands — so many times Omi has ignored his challenges on the court, but not this one. His eyes canvas Omi’s body, from his lips down to his waist, and licks his lips. “Is everythin’ else fair game then?”

Omi turns his glare back on, but there’s too much lust clouding his gaze for it to be effective, and he says nothing. Omi can’t hide this — he _wants_ Atsumu, and he’s going to use that to his advantage. 

“Good,” Atsumu answers his silence, and he practically tears the shirt off Omi’s back. It comes above his head, leaving his curly hair mussed and his eyes wide, but just for a moment before they close again, because Atsumu is back on him, claiming his lips as his own, kissing them swollen. He drags his hands down his chest, blindly navigating the dips and planes before landing on his waist. His hips buck up at the touch.

“Ya like when I touch ya,” Atsumu observes, a little dizzy himself now. “Look at ya — yer shaking.”

“Shut _up,_ ” Omi snarls and he pushes down on Atsumu’s shoulders, knocking his leg away before dropping them to Atsumu’s waist. He takes two handfuls of his sweatpants, lines him up, and pulls him so their cocks perfectly align, then Omi grinds down. 

“Ah, fuck,” Atsumu squeaks, losing his composure and his edge, while Omi’s eyes grow angrier and angrier. He moves against Atsumu torturously, before he’s taken once again by his lips. 

Between breaths, Omi loses the last of his control. “You’re arrogant,” he snaps, then shoves his tongue so far into Atsumu’s mouth that he almost chokes on it before ripping away again. “You’re obnoxious.” He moves to his neck, bites down just like he’d admonished Atsumu for, and growls against his skin, “You’re _loud._ Rude. Cocky.” 

“Well, _yer_ a dismissive piece of shit,” Atsumu hits back, though he continues to rut against Omi and pleasure courses through every channel in his body. He puts his hand back on Omi’s neck and he gasps lightly. “Ya think yer better than everybody. Ya act like nothin’ affects ya, like ya got no emotions.” He leans in to kiss him and Omi’s eyelids flutter closed before Atsumu pulls away, and then they pop open in confusion. “But like this, yer face is tellin’ me all sorts of things, Omi.”

“I hate you,” Omi bites and Atsumu grins, feral. 

“Yeah, I can’t fuckin’ stand ya either.” 

He releases Omi again and all at once separates them. Omi looks wrecked, hands now braced on the locker, holding himself up since his grip on Atsumu has been broken. Atsumu takes a moment to take him in — all fucked out like this, Omi is as pretty as a picture. He should show this side of himself more often.

Actually, nah. This side of Omi belongs to Atsumu now.

He curls his fingers around the waistband of Omi’s sweatpants and yanks them down to his ankles. Omi’s cock springs free and Atsumu takes that in too — just as long as the rest of him, pale and dripping with precum. Atsumu wants to put his mouth on it. 

“Ya ever been sucked off, Omi, or are ya too good for that too?” 

Instead of an answer, Omi shoves Atsumu onto his knees. Then, he retorts, “Are you any good at it, or is your mouth only good for spewing bullshit?”

Atsumu smirks and sticks out his tongue, just because he’s heard Omi complain about it before. “I’ll show ya, then.” 

Usually, Atsumu likes to take things slow, but Omi doesn’t deserve the care and attention Atsumu can put into this, not when he’s deprived Atsumu of years worth of recognition that he earned. No, this is not slow and soft and deliciously tortuous — this is fast and sweaty and hard and filled with half a lifetime of contempt, so Atsumu does not hesitate when he swallows Omi whole. 

“ _Fuck,_ ” Omi chokes and Atsumu hums around his cock, a thrill shooting through him at the word. He braces his hands on Omi’s hips and takes him deep. Omi bucks into his mouth and tears threaten to prickle in his eyes, but he holds strong and flattens his tongue, emboldened by the tiny mewls that Omi can’t manage to hold back. 

“You’re good at this,” Omi mutters. “You must spend more time sucking dick than you do practicing volleyball.”

Atsumu pulls off with a pop and glares. “I’m better than ya at both.” 

“You wish.” 

Atsumu gazes up at him and licks a stripe up his cock before wrapping a loose fist around his shaft, and fluttering his eyelashes at him. “That’s yer problem, Omi — ya can’t admit when someone’s got ya beat. Is that why ya have such an issue with me?”

Omi doesn’t answer that question either, and instead yanks Atsumu up from his knees and twists him around so now _he’s_ shoved against the locker, and he presses their bodies flush together before latching his lips back onto him. 

He’s kissing like he’s got something to prove, like they’re still fighting and Omi isn’t anywhere near giving up. He sucks Atsumu’s lower lip between his teeth, waits until he loses his breath, then he’s pulling away and Atsumu is whining at the loss. Omi smirks, and it’s a nasty, smug smirk, but it’s still more than he usually gives, so Atsumu takes it. He takes it when Omi’s lips move to his neck, then to his chest, all the while his hands creep slowly down his sides. He takes it when Omi fishes his cock out of his sweatpants and wraps a hand around it, stroking it leisurely, just to show that he can, that he can affect Atsumu like this, and that he has been able to for _years._

Atsumu hates him, hates this goddamn hold that Omi has over him, hates that he was in control and now he’s writhing at the slightest hint of acknowledgment, at the lightest touch. 

Atsumu growls and knocks his hand out of the way. He shimmies his sweatpants down to his ankles and he licks the palm of his hand, never taking his eyes off Omi.

He says, “You’re disgusting,” but his face says otherwise, and when Atsumu takes both of their cocks in his hand, rubbing them against each other, Omi throws his head back and keens — so expressive, so damn beautiful when he lets his guard down. 

Atsumu takes advantage of it, shifts them for the third time so that Omi is once again crowded against the locker, and he pumps their cocks together swiftly and unyieldingly, determined to draw out every last expression Omi has to offer. His head falls against the metal behind him and he closes his eyes. 

Atsumu kisses him again while he’s off-guard, matching the pace at which his hands move. Omi opens his mouth wide, digs his nails into Atsumu’s back, and thrusts into his hand, trying desperately to hold back the small moans that come quicker and quicker. Omi doesn’t use his words, but he doesn’t have to — Atsumu can read him now, finally, after years of frustration and ambiguity. Atsumu knows exactly what he wants. The tiny ministrations of his fingers against Atsumu’s skin, the subtle buckling of his knees, the whines he isn’t able to bite back — they’re a language of Omi’s that Atsumu wants to learn. 

He knows he’s not going to last much longer, but he can’t lose this strange, urgent competition he’s entered with Omi, so he trails kisses along Omi’s jaw down to the part of his neck that he now knows is sensitive, and bites once more. 

Omi grunts, almost pained, and then he’s spilling into Atsumu’s hand and Atsumu breathes his own sigh of relief and lets himself go. 

There’s silence afterward, other than the buzzing of fluorescent lights and their breaths slowly normalizing again. Omi doesn’t look at Atsumu, choosing instead to stare at the ceiling. Atsumu’s anger has long since dissipated, leaving him fuzzy around the edges, so he’s careless when he says, “I don’t think I really hate ya, Omi.”

Omi’s mouth is set in a hard line when he meets Atsumu’s eyes again. “Give me your phone,” he demands. Atsumu picks his pants up from the floor and digs around in his pockets until he finds it. He unlocks it and hands it over. Omi types something into it quickly, eyebrows scrunched up, then tosses it back to Atsumu, finally moving away from the locker to put his own pants on. He says nothing more, and gathers his things without even cleaning up, before fleeing the room. Atsumu is left alone. When he checks his phone, he sees a new contact, saved under _Sakusa._

He smiles, and changes it to _Omi_.

-x-

Samu answers on the first ring, a true testament to twin telepathy. “Yeah,” he drawls.

“I fucked Omi in the locker room after our game against the Adlers,” Atsumu says without preamble. Samu is silent on the other end, but Atsumu knows he’s just disgesting. These things take him a while, and it’s not as if Atsumu gave him any sort of warning before dropping the bomb on him, he’s — 

“Finally,” Samu says. “Ya’ve been obsessed with him for yer whole damn life.” 

Atsumu sputters. “What — no, I _haven’t_!” 

“There was a whole week in high school where ya did nothin’ but talk about him. You were at that damn fancy training camp an’ all ya could talk about was Omi, Omi, Omi.” 

“Because I _hate_ him!” Atsumu insists. “He’s the worst!” 

“Mhm.” Samu’s answer is dismissive and Atsumu’s mouth drops open from shock and betrayal. “Jus’ make sure ya tell mom when ya start dating him. She’s always complain’ to me that yer gonna be alone forever.”

“Why is she worried about _me_? I’m the cuter twin!”

He can practically hear Samu shrugging. “I live a more stable lifestyle.” 

“Stable doesn’t equal better,” Atsumu grumbles, thoroughly irritated. “An’ I’m not gonna date Omi. I can’t stand him.” 

“I can’t believe yer gonna get married before I do,” Samu sighs on the other end, ignoring Atsumu’s declaration completely. “I gotta find a girlfriend.” 

“I — ”

“Oh, an’ make sure ya call Rintaro too. He’s been wonderin’ when ya were gonna figure out ya were in love with Sakusa. You can tell him the graphic details because I sure as hell don’t want them.”  
  
Atsumu is stunned into complete silence for the second time that day, and probably, really only the second time in his life. He gapes, before unceremoniously hanging up on his brother and pulling up Omi’s number, freshly entered into his phone.

He hovers over the contact, fingers twitchy. Atsumu can imagine the reaction Omi might have to receiving a text from him — a slight blush, wide eyes. He realizes that he wants to see every emotion Omi is capable of, displayed right on his pretty, pale face, and fuck, Samu is probably right, again. 

He sighs, kind of wants to scream, but instead, he just fires off a text. _Ya wanna get dinner sometime this week?_

Omi’s response is immediate and concise. _If you’re paying._

Atsumu smiles then stomps his foot. Damn that Omi — damn him to hell. Atsumu hates him so much. He throws his phone onto his bed and moves to his closet and begins to rummage through his clothes, picking out something he could wear for a date. 

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [ twitter!! ](https://twitter.com/sweetestnerd_)  
> 


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